by Aria Ford
In fact, if it wasn’t for this leg, I’d say I’m not bad looking.
I caught sight of myself in the window as I stood, the darkening sky beyond it making it a mirror. I still had a long, square-jawed face with those big blue eyes and an unbroken nose. I was handsome, I guessed. But I was also utterly unable to get stuff off the floor without having to be on my knees, and incapable of walking from here to the door without either using the crutches or doing a lurching, undignified hop.
In short, I wasn’t dating material.
I resisted the urge to take my phone downstairs in my pocket. If I had it with me, I would be tempted to reply to Margo’s text message.
I had read the thing about fifty times, poised to answer it. Then I’d put it away, leaving my phone in my jacket and my jacket on the windowsill, out of sight.
“Jay?” I heard my father calling up the stairs.
I sighed. “Coming, Dad.”
I slid my arms into the crutches and swung out through the door.
Stairs were hard. I was grateful the rest of the family were in the kitchen so no one had to see me go down crab-like—one hand on the banister, the other hand holding my crutches. I relied heavily on my shoulders and wondered what I would’ve done if they hadn’t already been pretty big.
I guess they would just have got stronger.
I reached the bottom, jaw tight with the effort, and headed in for dinner.
“It’s a pity you missed my stew last night,” Mom said wistfully, putting a piece of delicious-looking fish on my plate.
“Oh?” I frowned. My cheeks went pink. I willed her not to ask me where I’d been.
“It was great stew,” my father spoke up distantly. I could have hugged him. I didn’t know whether he’d deliberately diverted attention from me or if he’d done it naturally, but I was grateful.
“I remember Mom’s stew,” I said softly. “It’s always good. Was it the regular one?”
“No,” Mom said quickly. “This was one with tomatoes. I had to do something with the things after Auntie Lulu brought them over.”
I chuckled and the conversation headed down friendlier avenues—discussing people and places we all knew, references we shared to past events. No one mentioned my absence the previous night or asked where I’d been, for which I was grateful.
After dinner, I went upstairs, wanting to be alone again. I had escaped any questions so far and I didn’t want to elicit any more. I could feel my mom about to ask something at various points in the dinner and I felt the need to evade her. In the study, I managed to finish the article, for which I was grateful, and sent it off. I closed my eyes. Now that it was through, I had nothing else to divert my attention from Margo.
Left alone to myself at the end of the day, I was free to let my imagination run wild. I remembered the way it had felt to push my tongue between those soft, pillowy lips. I felt myself get hard as I thought of how good it felt to plunder her mouth with my tongue.
She had leaned against me, those soft breasts crushed against my chest, her body soft and scented of flowers, some expensive perfume I had never figured out what it was. I sighed, recalling how intoxicating it smelled on her skin, how pale she was, her skin glowing in the light of the streetlamps as she drove home.
My mind fed me an image of her naked—her high, firm breasts, narrow waist, soft hips. I allowed myself to fantasize about her, the way it felt to push inside her, the way she yelled and shivered as I entered her.
I was helplessly aroused just thinking about it and I knew I was going to find it hard to sleep tonight. I could feel my cock straining at the fastening of my jeans and I looked down with a wry smile. I couldn’t help how hopelessly Margo affected me.
“No.” I told myself sternly as I felt myself, almost involuntarily, reach for my phone. I was not—absolutely not—answering her.
I could fantasize as much as I wanted but I wasn’t budging on this. Margo was better without me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Margo
I sighed. It was Friday. I was just leaving the training session with Glenna, the warmth from the shower still soothing my aching muscles. Glenna had noticed again that I was being weird. I knew I was. I was distracted and fed up and sad. And it was dumb of me.
“You saw him on Tuesday,” I told myself angrily, lathering my hair with unnecessary strength. “It’s Friday. Either he is going to answer or he isn’t. Forget him.”
I knew I should let this go. After all, he had. I was sure Jay didn’t think about me from one moment to the next, so I should let go too. It was sensible.
“I just can’t forget about it.”
I glared at myself in the mirror. My face was pale, in high contrast to my dark and curled straggles of hair, still wet from the shower. My eyeliner had run, leaving my eyes dark and sad, outlined with raccoon-dark rings of black.
I should just move on. I wasn’t a girl and he wasn’t my first crush. I was a mature young woman and I should know better.
I dried off, wiped the leftover makeup off my face and headed out to the car park.
When I got home I still had that sinking, sad feeling. I checked my schedule. Nothing for the rest of today. It was round lunch time and I decided to call Lance, my brother. Maybe he could meet up for lunch.
“Lance?”
“Hey! Mims! How are you?”
I felt my heart warm, just hearing that familiar voice. Unfortunately, it also had the effect of making me want to cry.
“Fine, Lance,” I managed to say. “Just a bit…um…well…are you available for lunch?”
“Well, sure,” he said. He sounded cheerful. “It’s not every day I get to see my little sister.”
I made a wry face. “I’m twenty-eight,” I said stubbornly.
He chuckled. “And you’re still my little sister.”
I would have pulled a face at him if he’d been there. Instead I laughed. “I guess so. Well, will we go to Greenspace?”
“Okay,” he agreed. “See you there at…when?”
“Shall we say one thirty?”
“Works great, Mims.”
“Great. See you then.”
We hung up.
I changed into something worthy of Greenspace—navy slacks and a semicasual shirt and jacket. Then I headed downtown.
When I saw his long oval face—so like mine, only equipped with blue eyes and blond hair—I felt my heart flip. It was so good to see him. I had missed a friendly face.
“Lance. Hi.”
“Mims! Good to see you. How’s life?”
I smiled a bit sadly. “Well, lively.”
He laughed. “Well, for an investment consultant that sounds as good as it gets.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, come on, Lance! You deal with risk, you said. How can that possibly be boring?”
He pulled a face. “You better believe it can.”
We both laughed. He actually loved his job, though he would be the last person to admit it.
“Well, what do you feel like?” I asked, looking down the menu. The only thing that jumped out at me was their rice bowl. I’d had it before and it was delicious.
“I’ll take these,” he said, pointing to the second one in the selection of wraps. “Sound good.”
“They are,” I nodded. “I’m having the rice bowl.”
He raised his brows and did that “whatever-you-think-is-best” face. I smiled.
“It’s so good to see you.”
He laughed. “It’s good to see you,” he agreed. “It’s really not every day I get to have lunch with you and catch up. And you’ve been hard at work lately.”
“Not really,” I said mildly, setting aside the menu. “Just an interview on Monday, and then the session for photos…” I was waiting to hear back about that. In the aftermath of Jay, I’d almost forgotten.
“Oh?” he sounded interested. “Uh, thanks. We’re having the wrap…number two…and, what was it, Mims?”
“The rice bowl,” I sai
d to the waiter. “And water to drink.”
“Two waters.”
When he’d gone, I turned back to Lance.
“Yes. I had an interview with guys from Realtone—you might have heard of it? A new makeup brand?”
He made a confused face and I laughed.
“Sorry, Mims,” he said. “I haven’t. But Google has.” He reached for his phone. I smiled.
“It’s a fairly high-end new brand,” I explained and he put the phone away. “They’re looking for a new representative. I reckoned it was time I jumped from Petals—I can’t be on their merchandise forever.”
He chuckled. “I dunno, Mims. I don’t know about these things. In my mind, the associated cost of rebranding is…”
I chuckled. “I don’t think they mind—companies like that live to reinvent themselves. And getting a new face after four years isn’t really even that drastic.”
“Well, it’s your specialty,” he conceded. “This fashion stuff, I mean. I am clueless.”
“At least you admit it,” I smiled.
He laughed. “Thanks. I think.”
The waiter appeared with our meals. While he set everything out, I considered whether or not to tell Lance about Jay.
“You look sad,” he said when the waiter had gone. I sighed.
“I’m not sad. Not really. It’s just…”
“Just what?” he asked. He was cutting a section off the wrap, chewing it thoughtfully. “Mm,” he added.
“It’s just—I dunno. Maybe I’m just stupid.”
“No,” he said, reaching for some water. “It’s not that. Trust me.”
I chuckled. “Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. But I think I’m being stupid. It’s…remember we saw Jay on Sunday?” I said cautiously.
“Jay Locke? Yeah, I remember,” he nodded. My brother and Jay had gotten along well. It was something else I really liked about Jay.
“Well…I sometimes wonder what happened. With him. And that.”
I felt my fist grip my other hand, and knew I was nervous. I really had no words to say what I wanted to say. How could I explain how I felt to my brother? “You mean…his leg?”
“Mm,” I nodded. I reached for my water, distracting myself. I recalled how involved my brother had been at that time—explaining to me about the accident, trying to find out more, even going to the hospital. I don’t think anyone was allowed in.
“Well, I think it’s changed him. A lot,” he added slowly.
“You think that?” I was surprised Lance noticed. I sure had, but Lance had only seen him for a few minutes in the airport. Maybe it was this whole risk thing—heightening intuition or something.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “I’m a sportsman—kind of. I know how it feels to take such pride in one’s body. And I’m not even a pro. I can’t imagine how it was for him. It was his life. His whole self.” He shuddered.
“You mean, when he lost the use of his leg…” I said slowly, trying to understand.
“He lost everything. Most importantly, he lost his pride. He feels worthless, Mimi.”
I stared at him. “But that’s stupid,” I blurted. “I mean, it’s the lower half of his right leg! It’s nothing. He can walk, he can stand…it’s so minor! I don’t even notice.”
He sighed. “That’s not really the point, Mims. It’s not whether or not you can tolerate it…it’s serious.”
I interrupted him. “Tolerate it?” I said, amazed. “What’s to tolerate? It’s nothing!” I couldn’t have cared if Jay didn’t have legs! It was him I cared about! Why couldn’t he understand?
“Mims, it’s not nothing,” he said gently. “The guy lost everything. Try and understand it from his perspective…”
“From his perspective?” I was hurt. “Damn his perspective,” I said angrily. “He’s not the one who’s been left feeling like he’s totally unacceptable.”
At bottom, that was how I felt. How else was I supposed to feel?
My brother laughed. “You? Unacceptable? Margo…”
I felt a stab of anger. How did he know how I felt? That was unfair! My feelings of inadequacy were just as valid—they should have been more so, because I was his sister.
Just because I was a model didn’t mean I felt good about myself—far from it. If he had to stress out over every tiny change in his face, from freckles to laugh lines, he’d also end up with a complex. I felt hideous if I happened to get bags under my eyes, like I’d suddenly lost value. And he thought he understood me and that I should feel fine about myself?
“Fine,” I said tightly. “You can just be like that. Don’t care about me. See if it affects me.”
I pushed back my chair, stood.
He stared at me, horrified. “Margo…”
I knew I was being stupid. I just couldn’t help it. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he was insisting Jay was somehow crippled, now he was dismissing my feelings.
“I’m sorry, Lance. I just…I don’t think I can do this right now.”
My eyes were already filling with tears and I blinked them aside savagely, then strode to the front desk.
“Put that on my tab, please,” I asked the guy at the desk. If he was surprised, he didn’t blink.
“Sure, Ms. Lawrence.”
I thanked him and walked out into the car park.
Outside I let the tears fall. I felt the wind blow against them softly, cooling me. I wanted to curl up into a ball and sob. But I had to get home first.
I slid into my car seat and drove back.
I collapsed onto the bed when I got in, curled up and started crying. I sobbed. I had no idea why, but it felt as if the last four years of tears had all congealed inside me and were only now coming to the surface to be expressed.
“Damn Lance. Damn Jay.”
I knew I wasn’t really angry with them—either of them—I was just sad. For myself. For what I’d had. For what I’d lost. But I wasn’t angry.
I lay on my back and looked at the ceiling. My bed was across the room from where it had been, for which I was grateful. If I’d been staring up at the same bit of ceiling with the very slight watermark on it that I’d looked at when I lay with Jay, it would have hurt.
I suppose Lance is right—I don’t understand.
I knew he was right, which was all the more infuriating. I didn’t want him to be right. I didn’t want to think that Jay was feeling bad about himself. In fact, I couldn’t understand how.
He could do everything anyone else could do. And it wasn’t like I could see anything wrong with him. He was fine in my eyes.
He lost everything. His body meant everything to him. His identity.
I sighed. I guess I did know how that felt. I knew how it felt to have your whole life tied up with your body. I was working with mine too. I looked after my face passionately, wearing sunscreen and sunglasses and moisturizing three times a day. I was every bit as tied up with a part of my body as he was tied up with being able to stand, and walk, and run.
“Fine, I get it,” I said to the ceiling. I sat up.
Of course, I could understand why he was so devastated following the accident, I told myself as I headed to the dressing table, carefully blotting the tears off my cheeks and round my eyes. They would be swollen tomorrow.
“I do understand that. But why me? What’s that from?”
I didn’t understand anything about that. Why he’d suddenly turned away from me with no word.
I carefully put moisturizer on my cheeks, rubbing it in the way my esthetician, Latoya, told me. I would have to do something about my eyes. As I worked on them, making little circles at the corner with my ring fingers, helping them to drain, I had a thought. I stared.
He isn’t ashamed, is he?
I laughed. No way. Why would he be? He must know how much I loved him. He had to understand that I didn’t even see his leg, that I never had. Fine—the stunning body was part of him, but it was a small part of the whole Jay, and it was all of him I loved.
&
nbsp; “You never told him that, Margo,” I said aloud.
I sighed. Should I risk it? What if I did?
If I wrote to him as things were now, explaining that I loved him and always had and that I couldn’t have cared if he could walk or not—he could still smile and tease me, kiss me and hold hands and look at me with those stunning blue eyes…
“If I said that, he’d run away.”
I could only imagine how it would come over to him. He had slept with me once. Then he’d left. I didn’t want to look clingy.
It’s better not to look too attached, I reminded myself sternly. My mother had said that when I was in high school. I should obey her injunction. She was right. And besides, certainly she knew better than I did?
There was no way I could tell him what I really thought.
I would just keep it to myself. I would not write until he answered. And if he never did, well?
“Well, then I’ll forget him.”
I grinned at myself, though I noticed my eyes were empty. Why should I be sad about him? There were plenty of guys out there.
And if any of them notice that I have more smile lines than I did four years ago, or that there’s this weird patch of discoloration just here on my cheek, well…so what?
I giggled. Yes, it mattered to me. It mattered so damn much that I was no longer the twenty-four-year-old with the perfect skin and white, dazzling smile who had first gotten a contract with Petals. But maybe, if I was lucky, no one else would notice.
Maybe not everyone was as shallow as the people and the industry in which I belonged. For the first time I dared to hope it.
But one thing seemed fairly certain to me: Jay Locke was that shallow.
Or why had he walked away from me? I could, almost, understand his pain. I knew how bad it would feel if it was me and something happened that stopped me modeling. So I could identify. I could sympathize. I could even empathize.
I just couldn’t accept that he felt the need to walk out on me.
